What Happens in Praxus
by Dragon of Dispair
Summary: WFC Dark!Praxus AU - Pre-War - Praxus is everything the tourist brochures say. A fantasy land of towering crystal gardens and glittering cathedrals, but there is a price. Gambling and debt feed the city's lifeblood and in a city where a mech's life can be won or lost on the turn of a card, no one is what they seem and clawing your way may prove impossible.


Fandoms: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: War for Cybertron

Characters: Prowl, Smokescreen, Jazz

Other tags: Pre-War, Alternate Universe, Gambling, Prostitution, Intrigue, Lots of Intrigue, Headcannons, Worldbuilding

Summary: tf_promptorama's weekly request… Any characters, any continuity / Criminal Enterprise

Pre-War - Praxus is everything the tourist brochures say. The cathedrals are gorgeous, the Crystal Gardens are _the_ must see attraction, the gourmet energon treats are some of the best on Cybertron, and if you're lucky enough to be there during the festivals… but there is a price. Gambling and debt feed the city's lifeblood and in a city where a mech's life can be won or lost on the turn of a card, no one is what they seem, and clawing yourself free can prove impossible.

Notes: Not begging, but… hits are good, kudos are better and reviews encourage sequels. That's just how it works. I can't write longer stuff without at least a bit of feedback, and I really want to be able to continue this one.

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 **What happens in Praxus (…Stays in Praxus)**

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 _You've got to know when to hold 'em_

 _Know when to fold 'em_

 _Know when to walk away_

 _Know when to run_

— Kenny Rogers, _"The Gambler"_

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"Smokescreen!" Prowl leaned out of the security office as the blue and red race-frame passed the door.

For his part, Smokescreen's sensor panels hiked up in alarm and he spun to face the black and white Interceptor-frame. "By Primus Prowl! I _swear_ I haven't been skiffing cards again. Luckycharm's just got a grudge… you know that."

One elegant optic ridge lifted. Smokescreen was one of Breakwater Resort's professional gamblers. Native Praxan players rolled their optics when they saw a professional gambler sit down and either followed or avoided them, depending on the game; tourists were often just cleaned out so quickly their heads spun.

According to Smokescreen's contract, seventy-percent of his winnings from any game he played belonged to Breakwater; the remaining thirty percent was his to pay rent, buy energon, and pay off his debts to Breakwater Resort with. If he didn't win, the casino paid his rent and food and added its cost to his debt. Smokescreen had a reputation for getting impatient and trying to augment his winning through means normally frowned upon to try and pay his debts faster.

What he hoped to do with his fiscal freedom was something he didn't tell Prowl. Some orns he wasn't sure himself; he just knew he wanted to be free of this place. Freedom, however, was easier conceived of than achieved. Everyone in Praxus was in debt to someone.

Even Prowl, though Smokescreen didn't know who held Prowl's debts. No one did. It made those around him nervous. Much of a mech's motivations were dependent on who his creditor was. Not knowing who someone owed his money to made even the steadiest mech unpredictable. It wasn't Breakwater, he knew that much, though why someone who didn't owe the casino anything would choose to work here was a mystery.

"I will be certain to review the security footage of your recent games," Prowl said dryly and Smokescreen groaned, "but that was not what I wished you to see." He ducked back into the office to the tune of Smokescreen banging his helm against his hand as he followed. His position as a professional gambler insulated him from nastiest punishments (like torture, reprogramming and selling his debt to the science caste — they were _always_ in need of experimental subjects) that Hotel Security came up with to deal with those caught cheating inside the walls of Breakwater Resort, as long as he only plied that skill against games like Disasters where he won his money mostly from other players and not from the House, but if he was caught it was still a nasty fine designed to put him deeper into debt to the casino.

The halls of Breakwater Resort, even in the employee-only area outside the security office, were a study in luxury. Deep copper mesh floor coverings were a striking contrast to the deeply textured blue walls. Mica-infused paint sparkled in the light of crystal chandeliers. Out in the casino and hotel it all was even more extravagant. The security office, however, was all business.

Every table of holo-roulette and triple seven had three cameras trained on it at all times, while tables of Three Predacon Ante and Disasters were even more closely monitored. Fireworks, being a low-stakes co-op game only had one camera; games of mech vs AI Insecticon Wars had cameras trained on the players _and_ real time monitoring of the AIs' code to prevent tampering. The Homeworlds tournament in Conference Halls Zircon, Amethyst, and Tourmaline had cameras watching every player like cyberhawks.

Combat simulators were recorded and monitored. Gladiator fights — while not as gruesome and bloody as the famous pit-fights of Kaon — were held and thus were still watched, recorded and monitored. Not that the Pits of Kaon were absent from Praxus. Live feeds of those fights were shown for betting on in bars and restaurants along side screens showing the results of lottery games of all sorts. More common than gladiatorial combat in Praxus were drone fights and races, and every square inch of the arenas, tracks, storage, prep and repair areas was watched diligently by security. Medics — actual medics, indebted to the Resort — saw to the drones' repair and ensured they contained no unauthorized extras.

Every entrance, exit, hallway and elevator had a camera. And there were hundreds of wandering spydrones, some programed to skitter along set patrol routes; others directly controlled by the mechs in this room.

Military bases didn't have this much security.

Of course not. The military only had weapons, ammunition and indentured soldier-mechs. Replaceable. Expendable. Casinos, on the other hand, were the sparkpulse of Praxus.

It didn't surprise him when Prowl led him to one of the security monitors. The small army of security mechs manning the cameras didn't even look up — the only thing important in Security was the feeds themselves.

This camera overlooked a bank of Trajectory machines, which confused Smokescreen as to why Prowl wanted him to see this. Programmed for games where money was exchanged as he was, Trajectory was (from his point of view) one of the most boring games in existence. Money went into the machine and you got nothing but the dubious pleasure of putting your designation on a high scores list out of it — _if_ you were both lucky and absolutely _fantastic_ at the game. And had a lot of shanix to waste on the attempts. He looked at Prowl in question.

"That," Prowl clarified, pointing to the vending machine on the far side of the Trajectory machines. "Watch."

It didn't actually clarify much, but Smokescreen shrugged and did so, still wondering why Prowl was bothering. Breakwater Resort security didn't care one bit about the vending machines.

The overpriced goodie dispensers were stocked and managed by BubbleUp Goodie Distribution Corp. They paid Breakwater for the floorspace near the gamblers and the casino took no responsibility for them; the only reason there was a camera watching the machine was that security insisted on one-hundred percent coverage of every nook, cranny and crevice in the Resort.

When it happened though, Smokescreen saw what Prowl wanted him to see immediately.

A black and white mech with a blue visor and red biolights, non-Praxan, paint too dull to be a tourist though, sauntered casually into the camera's view. He stopped to chat with a Trajectory player who was between games. The green Praxan was flicking his sensor panels in frustration and the black and white's tires twitched in sympathy. Smokescreen could practically hear the conversation, though this particular camera did not have an audio pickup.

Black and white: "Hey. How's your game going? Winning?"

Trajectory player: "$!^&*%! This machine!"

Black and white: "Ow… sorry to hear that. Want me to fetch you a goodie while you set up for your next game?"

Trajectory player: "Yea sure. Here's a couple of shanix. Get me a Sweet Sun Sparkle would you?"

Black and white: "Sure thing!"

Then, as Smokescreen had known he would, the black and white headed to the vending machine. Being a cheat, not a pickpocket, thief or security-mech tasked with catching pickpockets and thieves, he didn't see the mech subspace his ill-gotten gains or the player's shanix but dutifully watched the mech deliver the requested goodie to the mech he'd conned. His blue visor didn't even glance at the camera as he passed beneath it.

Smooth. Smokescreen said as much. Prowl only twitched his panels in agreement and waited. A moment's more thought, a couple taps on the screen and his waiting paid off. Smokescreen knew how this arrangement worked. "How often?" he asked.

"Between three and five times an orn. Not always the same machine, but there is a pattern if watched long enough." Which was, presumably, how he'd known it would happen in time to bring the red and blue in to witness.

The gambler felt a frown appear on his faceplate and tried to smooth out his expression. He didn't know what Prowl's interest was, but this wasn't the first time the security mech had asked him to profile a petty criminal and what Prowl did with that information was never consistent. Sometimes nothing, and those mechs continued to operate unhindered until someone else noticed the thefts. Sometimes hotel security dealt with the crook immediately. Other times Prowl called the Praxan Peacekeeping and Policing Corporation to take care of it.

Sometimes the subject of Prowl's interest simply disappeared.

But Prowl had gotten Smokescreen out of plenty of trouble, paying the fines he accrued from skiffing and other forms of cheating and the gambler owed him. A less tangible debt than mere shanix. So he did the profiles for Prowl and swallowed his guilt over the ones who were never seen again.

"What's he play?" cause he played something; everyone in Praxus — native, visitor or tourist — played something, and that went double or nothing for anyone inside the walls of a casino. Besides, if this mech was just knocking over vending machines, there were less risky places to do so than the camera-carpeted floor of one of Praxus' premier resorts.

"Fireworks and Three Pred Ante," Prowl answered without hesitation; confirmed — he'd been watching this mech for a while. Smokescreen winced. Fireworks was a cooperative game and the players rarely lost; accordingly the stakes were very low. Three Predacon Ante had a set buy-in and a player who was lucky or good could walk away with most of the other players' shanix if he was patient. He stopped Prowl from elaborating.

"Let me guess: Fireworks to raise the shanix for the Pred buy-in, does his best to quadruple that, then starts over with Fireworks as if he was starting from zero."

"Yes," Prowl's sensor panels twitched up, then down, then out — thinking — then twice in quick succession — decision. "By my calculations, he's using the money he gets from the Trajectory and Insecticon War players as his initial ante for Fireworks."

"Does he stay the night?"

"No. He leaves through the south catwalk entrance within a breem of the fifteenth joor every orn."

His engine hummed. "Let me see the rest of the footage you have of him."

Prowl complied, bringing it up, along with a notation that there was no evidence of tampering with any game the visored mech played. Of course not, Smokescreen thought. Those were games a good player rarely lost — the reason this mystery-mech had chosen them. He'd have bet his tires on it, if he'd thought Prowl might take it.

He watched the footage carefully. There was too much of it to got through it in its entirety — every second he'd spend inside the Breakwater was recorded — so he focused on the breem the black and white arrived each orn.

He didn't like what he saw. This mech didn't deserve Prowl's interest and he almost didn't continue the profile. But then he thought about the skiffer currently in his subspace and how much paying the next fine would hurt. Or worse, if Prowl called in the debt for all the fines he'd paid for Smokescreen so far.

Smokescreen winced again. The mech was surviving off goodies stolen from the vending machine. He _really_ didn't deserve whatever Prowl was going to do to him, but he didn't let it stop him. He _owed_ Prowl. "Tourist," he profiled, "from Protihex or Iacon," from the mech's build and those stubby sensor horns on his head. He was leaning toward the bot being from Protihex, but he really could have come from either city.

"Lower caste. Might have been sparked for one of the data castes, but that's not how he's been earning his shanix, wherever he's from." Data caste might have the processing power to hack the vending machine, but no one who actually worked in that high a caste ever had enough need to be that good at it.

"He's in debt and wants out, bad. I'm guessing whatever job his creditor has him doing — dancing or whoring probably," he tapped a frame of the surveillance video where the mech was discretely scraping away the last of the previous night's glitter, "— he hates it and his creditor isn't paying him enough to live on, much less buy his way out."

Blue and red sensor panels shrugged. "I'd bet that he came for a visit, lost it all, and now he doesn't have anything to risk," he finished his analysis.

He watched Prowl's sensor panels do that up-down-out motion that meant deep thinking several times. Again he wondered just what he'd gotten this mech in to.

 _Nothing to risk_ was different than _nothing to lose_ , after all. Especially in Praxus.

Finally Prowl nodded to himself. "Thank you Smokescreen." He stepped away to allow the other mech to stand without whacking each other with their sensor panels. "I believe you're expected at the Disasters tables soon."

Of course he was. Prowl always seemed to know everyone's schedules.

He held out his hand and Smokescreen just looked at it.

"The skiffer," Prowl said flatly.

The gambler tried to bluff. "I don't have it on me."

Prowl glared. Bluffing never worked on him. Smokescreen should know better, but there were some times that he just couldn't help himself. "This arrangement is beneficial so I will continue to pay your fines, but I would prefer you not to accrue any." He flexed his fingers impatiently.

With an unhappy rev of his engine, the gambler handed over the device and stalked out of the security center. He didn't stomp angrily, but it was a near thing.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he muttered.

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 _Now I don't know who to trust and I don't know what I can believe_

 _They say they want to help me but with the stuff they keep on saying_

 _I think those guys just wanna keep on playing_

 _Roulette, with my life_

— Bruce Springsteen, _"Roulette"_

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End (but hopefully I'll be back)

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Note: So many words, so little actually happening. Yay intrigue. This was originally supposed to be… IDK shorter, less serious and contain some actual Jazz/Prowl shippiness, but then intrigue happened. Dunno if I'll continue it, but I'm going to try.


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